


We Carry On (This Fire Won’t Go Out)

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, minor hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 10:36:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7219063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spies are generally known to be daring and dangerous, and Illya would think he is bracketed in that category. But that does not mean Illya doesn’t have any fears. And if anyone were to ask him what his fears are, then he would say there are two things that he’s afraid most from happening.</p><p>---</p><p>The one where someone from Napoleon’s past reenters his life, making both him and Illya wonder whether they are contented with what they have at the moment, or whether they want more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Carry On (This Fire Won’t Go Out)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [steviebucks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/steviebucks/gifts).



> I’ve never written a single shot story this lengthy before. Not quite sure what happened. The story just got longer as I was writing it and this is the end product. (maybe it’s just me over indulging myself :P) But I do hope you like it nonetheless

Spies are generally known to be daring and dangerous, and Illya would think he is bracketed in that category. But that does not mean Illya doesn’t have any fears. And if anyone were to ask him what his fears are, then he would say there are two things he’s afraid most from happening.

Number one is his fear of having strong emotional attachments for anyone. Some might say he’s being irrational, but he believes a spy of any stature should stay clear of this ‘flaw’, this ‘weakness’, that would only serve as a distraction in their line of work. Complications that’s sure to arise is something an operative like him does not need. Illya knows what they are like, having seen it first hand what it had done to his parents, and then enduring it himself, even if it had been brief, when he was twenty. But he had been young and naive then. He was not prepared for the hurt when it was taken away from him. It had all led to heartache and it was something he had vowed he would never want to go through again.

The second thing he’s afraid of is someone having control over his thoughts and his being without him having a say in it. Illya does not want a person having that much power over him. And to his credit, ever since he’s recruited by the KGB, he had managed to avoid both perfectly well.

That was until Berlin and Rome. Until he had met Napoleon.

And having all of his worst fears realised by the American cocky bastard with a mouth that just encompasses all kinds of sin Illya had ever known just makes it even more damning.

Illya’s first reaction when he had noticed his mistake was abject horror. His natural instinct then had told him to shrug it off, had told himself whatever he was feeling for Napoleon was temporary, a stupid phase that would eventually go away. Six months into their partnership Illya realised it wasn’t a phase after all but something that will be sticking around permanently. Now after a year, he is resigned to the fact he is completely and helplessly enamoured with Napoleon, although he’d rather be dead than ever letting the American know what he feels. Illya has accepted it as his fate and he is contented just to be close to Napoleon, to be able to protect and be there for him whenever he needs him. Even if it takes the toll on him sometimes, in fact, most of the time if he is honest, it is enough for Illya.

But an incident during their latest mission had wavered Illya’s stand. He had seen and felt something akin to a third fear; a threat of something, or rather someone, taking Napoleon completely away from him.

And that someone is currently with Napoleon in a small cafe across the street from UNCLE’s headquarters, talking to his partner rather intimately, _too_ intimately for his liking. They are sitting at a corner table facing each other like they are discussing something important that only matters to them, and the way Napoleon’s leaning in with his fingers seeming to meet his acquaintance’s in the middle just does not sit well with Illya. And that icy cold feeling settling in his gut at the moment, a feeling he recognises well enough, is nothing new to Illya. The jealousy rage he always gets whenever he sees Napoleon gets too close to a mark, or to a fellow colleague, (which he really shouldn’t feel because he knows Napoleon’s a flirt and whatever he does just attracts unnecessary attention) is something that Illya cannot help. He is accustomed to it. But this time around, the intense feeling is doubled a thousand times over. There is something different about the man Napoleon is talking to. And that said man, who had almost jeopardised their latest assignment, was also the reason why he had had that little argument with Napoleon.

Illya remembers it clearly.

They were about to wrap up their mission in Monaco. A meeting was set up between Napoleon and their mark, a nuclear strategist by the name of Eddie Demount, known for his penchant for rare gems, in exchange for some nuclear plans he had developed for a radical underground terrorist group. UNCLE had managed to set up Napoleon’s alias as an eccentric rich individual owning a boastful collection of gemstones, piquing Demount’s interest as soon as Napoleon had engaged with the man at a gala held in one of the towns more well-known establishments.

Their rendezvous point that night, a small bar, filled with only a handful of people, had been a good setting for their escape if anything were to go wrong.

And Napoleon was about to make that all important exchange with Demount, when a man sitting at the bar counter (the man who currently holds Napoleon's interest in that damn cafe and the source of Illya’s growing annoyance) had stopped Napoleon by calling out Napoleon’s name, blowing his cover. Illya could only watched in horror when Napoleon had frozen to the spot upon hearing his name, the man’s voice entrancing him and from across the counter where he had been sitting, Illya had noticed something in Napoleon’s blue eyes, a change in his stance when he had seen the man.

“Solo, what are you doing?” Illya had hissed into Napoleon’s earpiece. “Demount is waiting for you. Move!”

Eddie Demount, sitting at a table less than a feet away, had looked on curiously when Napoleon had stopped. “Mr Connor?” he’d said, referring to Napoleon’s alias, as he walked up to Napoleon. “Is something the matter?”

Illya had panicked when he saw Demount leaving his chair. They were in trouble of blowing their mission and Napoleon still had not made an effort to recover his mistake. “Cowboy, this is not time for one of your funny jokes!”

But before Illya could have time to understand what the hell was happening, another wave of fear had hit him when Napoleon’s source of distraction had started to move towards the American as well.

“Napoleon, since when did you change your last name to Connor?”

The other man had crowded Napoleon’s left and Napoleon, knowing he’d been caught in a tight spot, could only grin. “You know I've always hated my name.”

“Hmm, not so much, Leo,” the man had said. And Napoleon, from where Illya could see him, had only grinned wider. “Nobody’s called me that for a long time,” Illya had heard him say.

If Illya had more time, he would have knocked the distracting stranger out cold, maybe Napoleon too, for his stupidity, but he was too late. By the time he had reached Napoleon, Demount had realised he had been played. He had pulled out his gun, waving it frantically at Napoleon.

“You’re not really Kyle Connor, are you?” Demount had demanded before starting to panic, backing away slightly. “This is a fucking setup!”

From that distance, Demount had a straight shot at Napoleon. There was no way he could have missed. But thankfully for them, and to Illya’s relief, Demount’s exceptionally high alcohol assumption that evening had screwed with his aim and both Illya and Napoleon quickly took the opportunity to subdue him. But after the dust had settled, and they had managed somehow to get the plans from Demount, what Napoleon had planned to do afterwards had left Illya angry.

“You want to go see that man?! We’re leaving this place in an hour!”

“I’ll be back before you know it,” Napoleon had answered Illya in his usual nonchalance, and much to Illya’s annoyance, Napoleon didn’t even bat an eye his way.

“Who is he?” Illya had demanded but Napoleon had only smiled before leaving their hotel room.

When Napoleon eventually returned, Illya had noticed his change of mood, his lack of words, sometimes staring into space, and ever since that day, an uneasy feeling had settled in Illya’s gut and he knows it will not go anywhere anytime soon.

 

***

 

“Are you ready, Illya?”

Gaby turns to Illya at her side, frowns when Illya seems to be lost in his thoughts.

“Illya, lunch?” she says, tugs at his arm to get his attention. But Illya is still staring straight ahead, looking none too pleased at something.

“What’s the matter now?” Gaby asks, curious.

“I don’t see the need for Solo to be talking to him. Why is he still here?”

At once Gaby lowers her sunglasses to see what’s troubling Illya and after following Illya’s line of sight, she understands at once what the Russian is grumbling about. She sighs dramatically and Illya just scowls, feels like Gaby is patronising him.

“He is Solo’s former acquaintance, Mark Evans,” she explains at her unimpressed friend. “They are allowed to have a chat. Not against the rules, Illya.”

“Mark Evans?” Illya says the name in distaste. “And how do you know this?” he asks.

“I met the man after our debrief this morning. I saw Solo leaving hurriedly, I was curious, so I followed him. He eventually introduced us. You only missed the fun because you were held up by Waverly.”

Illya’s reaction to that must have been of pure disdain, Gaby almost cowers back.

“That man jeopardised our mission and suddenly Cowboy is introducing him to you?”

“It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know Solo was undercover,” Gaby tries to calm the somewhat distressed Russian.

“So now you defend him?”

“I’m not. But I think you’re overreacting.”

Illya scoffs at this and Gaby is quick to sense his annoyance. She has always wondered about Illya and Napoleon, wonders whether there is anything going on between them. The incident in Monaco had dropped Gaby a huge clue, the way Illya had acted all protective over their American counterpart, and now, this blatant act of jealousy just confirms what she has suspected all along. That Illya might have a thing for Napoleon. She wonders if she could push his buttons enough in order to make him admit it out loud. But before she could say anything else, Illya is already on to her again.

“So, now you like him too?”

Gaby cannot help but roll her eyes at Illya’s childish behaviour. But when Illya returns her glare, she hits him on the shoulder out of frustration.

“Oh, don’t give me that look, Illya. You know, if you try to get to know him, you might actually like him.”

“ _That_ will never happen,” Illya snaps.

“It felt like I was talking to another Napoleon when we spoke. They seem alike. I can see why Solo likes him,” Gaby continues to tease.

Illya gives her an incredulous look. Napoleon likes a lot of things, of course. However, Illya wishes this man could be an exception. And Gaby didn’t have to rub it in.

“We do not need two Cowboys in this world. One is more than enough.”

Gaby laughs. “Oh, we don’t want that of course! I don’t think I could handle two Napoleons either! But if that’s the case and if I must choose, I’d choose Solo over him, anytime.”

“There is only one Cowboy so there is no need to choose. At all,” Illya huffs before storming off, leaving a giggling Gaby hurriedly trying to catch his long strides.

 

***

 

To anyone that knows Napoleon by reputation, all they could say about the man is he’s an absolute charmer, a lover of all things beautiful, and Napoleon, he does love to love. He loves women and he loves men, but what they normally see is an act. Napoleon puts on his mask even when he’s not ‘thieving’. He puts on that mask to shield himself from unnecessary hurt, never drops his guard for anyone. What they see is Napoleon Solo the enigma, not Napoleon Solo the person. But Illya, the stubborn stoic Russian, had managed to see right through him somehow from the get go, and although that’s annoying as hell, Napoleon can’t help but adore the man.

But his adoration for his partner had somehow turned into this influx of unwanted thoughts of Illya, and Napoleon had realised a little too late that it’s just not a purely physical attraction he's having for the man, but also feelings of intense emotional want. Now Napoleon has had many lovers, but, _but_ , they’re just there to fill his needs, his loneliness, they had never really mattered. But Illya definitely matters, and Napoleon had cursed himself knowing he had only himself to blame for letting the Russian worm his way into his life.

Rome was supposed to be a one-off. Illya was supposed to be the enemy he’s fighting. But what they had become was something Napoleon could never have predicted. Sometimes he wonders how cruel his fate could be. Falling in love with a Russian partner, who’s totally oblivious and who would probably kill him if the knowledge ever gets out in the open, was probably the worse thing Napoleon could have ever done. But he’ll have it no other way, not after being through so much with the man, so Napoleon resorts to burying his feelings, because he could live with that, but not without Illya himself.

He thinks he has managed well enough, up until Mark’s sudden appearance in his life. Mark Evans, an old acquaintance of sorts, had bumped into him in the middle of their mission and although it was rather nice seeing the man again, the circumstances on how they had met, however, left little to be desired. Their mission was almost compromised and it had left Illya fuming. But it had not been Mark’s fault. He never knew about Napoleon and his CIA history, he was just an innocent bystander caught in the middle of their espionage game. And Mark’s a friend, an important person from his past. Napoleon could not simply ignore that fact. But Peril, he does not understand this.

And, curiously, he still is unhappy about the matter even days after they had returned to London. Napoleon knows this because Illya’s currently frowning at him from across their small office, his scowl growing deeper by the minute.

“You know, that look doesn’t suit you, Peril. I’m worried your face will stay that way if you don’t loosen up a little.”

When Illya had returned from his lunch with Gaby, he’d found Napoleon sitting behind his desk, staring off into space. That all new prevalent habit of his is starting to annoy Illya. And he knows exactly why Napoleon is behaving the way he is.

“I saw your friend,” Illya simply says and Napoleon raises an eyebrow.

“Friend?”

Illya hums. “That man, the one who almost screwed up our mission.”

“Ah, I see Gaby has told you about Mark,” says Napoleon, and Illya can see that he’s trying hard to fight back a cynical smile. Illya makes a disgruntled noise at that, grinds his teeth at the mention of the man’s name.

“Who is he? You never answered my question.”

“We go a long way back.”

“During your thieving days?” asks Illya.

Napoleon nods, then adds, like an afterthought, “We were—involved.”

“Together?” Illya asks. _‘Like lovers?’_ Illya wants to say, because what else could the word _‘involved’_ mean. But instead of mouthing off, he minces his words. The idea of Napoleon having one particular lover makes him quite ill. The idea of him with various women is much better. Even if he never approves of it, he knows it never means anything. Because they normally end up as another nameless face to Napoleon in the mornings. But this, this Mark person seems different. This Mark obviously means something to Napoleon. Something more than a meaningless fling. Illya feels dread runs through his veins, nauseating to a point he hopes it does not show on his face what he is feeling at that moment. Narrowing his eyes on his partner, he waits anyway for a confirmation from the American and then he sees Napoleon nodding to his earlier question.

“Yes, something like that, we were together,” he eventually murmurs his answer. “Are you appalled to hear that, Peril? Surely you must’ve known my tendencies somewhere along the past year or so of us working together.”

Napoleon isn’t sure whether what he had said was meant to be a jibe. He never really knew what Illya’s stand was when it came to relationships of the ‘same gender’. He had never asked him. All he knows is the Russian never really approves when he gets the honeypot missions.

”Peril? Are you that shocked to find out about this, that words have utterly failed you? Not going to ask for a transfer now, are you?”

" _Nyet_ , you obviously don’t know me that well, Cowboy,” he says, earning him a questioning look from Napoleon. Illya quickly lowers his gaze, stares at the pen in his hand. The mission report he was writing is forgotten at the moment.

“How did you meet?” The question rolls off his tongue before he could stop it.

Napoleon wonders where all the curiosity from Illya is coming from and whether he really is obligated to answer Illya. He doesn’t have to in all honesty but the need to appease Illya (is that what he’s doing?) increases.

Illya’s eyes snap up again, finds Napoleon staring at him. He lets out a breath. And Napoleon, he couldn’t gauge what Illya is thinking and feels a tad uneasy at his inability to do so.

“You sure you want to know that little insignificant detail?” Napoleon asks.

“I wouldn’t know if it’s insignificant. And it’s not a difficult question to answer.”

“No, of course, it’s not.”

“Then I’m waiting for your answer.”

Illya’s expression at the moment is incredibly intense, a mixture of perplexity and annoyance, yet all Napoleon could see is this too adorable Russian angry bear that is making his insides go a little haywire. Napoleon wonders how a ruthless, angry KGB agent has managed to change him into some kind of lovesick puppy. Sure, Illya had been angry at him, and Napoleon understands perfectly well why; he had almost screwed up their mission. But Illya couldn’t be angry with him for anything else, could he?

Napoleon sighs at his current predicament as he closes his eyes for a brief moment. Illya’s questions repeats itself in his head and Napoleon sees how it had happened, his encounter with Mark ages ago, and soon he starts spilling the little detail to Illya.

“I stole some paintings and some precious antiquates from his father’s gallery after the war. I had just started out, my skills as a thief at that time wasn’t very flattering, something I’m not terribly proud of if you must know. I got caught by Mark while trying to get out. He worked as a curator at the gallery and that night he was tending to some new art pieces his father had acquired. When he saw me he had threatened to call on security but I somehow managed to strike a deal with him. He then let me escape after some intense negotiation.”

After Napoleon had finished his little story, all Illya wants to ask him is about the deal they had struck. What kind of deal had Napoleon lay on the table? What form of _‘intense negotiation’_ had taken place exactly? Did he charm his way with Mark like he always do with their marks during their missions? He somehow pictures it in his head, pictures Napoleon and his innate ability to woo, to distract, to leave anyone just putty under his spell without him even knowing it. Illya hates his thoughts. Illya hates what he has become because of Napoleon.

“You must have forgotten to deactivate alarm.”

Napoleon just gives Illya a fond smile. “You’re humouring me.”

Illya takes in a deep breath.

“So instead of turning you in, he took instant liking for you. And after that falling in love. What a fairytale story.”

“I don’t think the story was as colourful as you had put it but it’s nice to see you’ve got such an imagination, Peril.”

Illya only scoffs. Napoleon didn’t even try to refute his _'falling in love’_ statement. The ticking of his finger against his desk grows more pronounced as seconds passed by and if Napoleon didn’t know any better, he almost thinks Illya is jealous. He would normally tease the Russian about it but somehow, he just could not make himself do so.

“After that incident, I seek him out, offered my thanks. We kept in close contact after that.”

 _So Napoleon was the one who had—_ Illya can’t even finish his own thoughts.

“What is he doing here in London? He followed you, didn’t he? Has no real reason to be here, has he?”

Napoleon suddenly has the urge to stride over to the Russian so he could kiss him senseless just to shut him up. His interrogation of him hasn’t stopped. He doesn’t understand why it’s so important for Illya to know (he’s just glad Illya’s not judging him so far), but he guesses he owes Illya that much of an explanation.

“He’s here on business,” Napoleon answers.

“How convenient,” Illya mutters under his breath. 

Deciding it’s pointless to talk about the matter anymore, Illya decides to drop the subject altogether when Napoleon, against his better judgement, decides to tell Illya what Mark had proposed to him during their meeting earlier that morning.

“Mark is starting his own art gallery back in New York. And he’s offered me to be his partner," he explains, pauses as if in thought. A smile then plays on his lips. "We’ve always dreamed of doing this back then. Talked about it all the time. Mark’s got a really good eye for art. It’s good that his dreams are coming true now. I know he wants this.”

Illya is stumped. “And he wants you to be part of this dream,” he says, tries to sound casual, tries not to betray the slight panic Napoleon’s bombshell is causing him.

Napoleon gives him a thin smile at Illya’s choice of words. _It would not be a problem for you, would it, Peril? If I were to go?_ he almost wants to ask him. Would it really matter? But why should it matter? He’s not someone that would in Illya’s life. He is certain of it.

“You want to go?”

Illya’s question almost floors Napoleon. Although Mark’s offer is tempting, he never toyed with the idea of him leaving UNCLE, leaving Illya. Lost for what to say, he offers his most disarming smile like his heart hasn’t just started racing in his chest at Illya’s question. His answer, however, is removed from what he really thinks and wants to say.

“I’m thinking about it.”

He really isn’t, but he wants to see what Illya will say, what he would do. But when Illya says nothing, simply gets back to his reports without showing any emotions, Napoleon’s heart almost sinks. He had seen too much into Illya’s strange behaviour, his incessant questions of him and Mark, thinking that there might be something going on in the Russian’s head. Napoleon realises, in the end, he had been wrong. With a sigh, he turns his focus on his paperwork, fails to see Illya’s eyes flicking towards him at that moment, fails to realise Illya’s heart had plummeted long after hearing Napoleon’s admission that he’s contemplating on leaving. And he is not sure how he will ever get it to resurface.

 

***

 

That night Illya lies in bed and cannot help but think of Napoleon. He groans inwardly, realises how foolish he had been. He should have known better. A man like Napoleon would definitely have had serious lovers before and it eats at him to know that Mark was one. Turning on his side, head almost buried underneath all the pillows, he tries in vain to ignore the questions swirling in his head but fails helplessly. He wonders who had initiated things between Napoleon and Mark? Had it been Napoleon? Even if Napoleon had been the one to seek Mark, maybe he had not intended for things between them to escalate beyond a platonic relationship? Maybe Mark had fallen for his easy charm like anyone would?

Illya sighs as more questions invade his mind. Did Napoleon love him? Did this Mark hurt Napoleon in any way during the course of their relationship? Illya’s gut churns with jealousy at the thought of Mark holding Napoleon in his arms, of Mark having his Solo in his embrace at night. He clenches his eyes hard and tries to erase the image away, of Mark having Solo night after night like how he wants and longs for him and hates how the thought of Napoleon, hard and writhing, gasping and moaning, arouses him to a state of passion that he has to grasp his hardening length just to suppress his want for his partner. Illya groans into the pillow, thinks about Napoleon; Napoleon who opens his eyes to things he’d never seen before, Napoleon who lets him lose self-control, Napoleon who gives him a sense of anticipation, of surprise, of indignation. He overwhelms and consumes him.

Unable to hold back, he jerks himself off to the thought of _Napoleon, Napoleon, Napoleon_ in his mind, the sensation too real until he could feel and taste the man, touches himself until he comes embarrassingly in his own hands and groans in anguish.

 

***

Illya is so accustomed to the three of them always together during their briefings with Waverly that when he finds Napoleon conspicuously missing that morning, he cannot help but worry until Gaby had to pull him aside later to calm his nerves. Gaby says he’s just overreacting as usual, but Napoleon’s odd behaviour has been bugging him, and it has been going on for a week. Illya’s certain it has something to do with Mark’s sudden appearance in Napoleon’s life, and as much as he hates it, he can’t really do anything about it other than confront him. And when Napoleon walks into their office a little after two in the afternoon, he quickly reprimands his partner for his absence.

“Where were you this morning? You missed our briefing with Waverly.”

The hint of anger in his voice is unmistakable but Napoleon just shrugs him off.

“Funny. Waverly did excuse me from it. Did he fail to tell you this?” Napoleon says.

“That’s not the point I’m trying to make,” Illya starts, but he doesn’t finish what he wants to say.

“You’ve been acting weird lately. Not yourself. Were you with _him_ this morning?” Illya asks, almost accusatory, but knows he is right when Napoleon flinched at his question. So what if he had spent his morning with Mark? And the past few days with him? He definitely does not need Illya’s permission to do so.

He quickly takes his seat behind his desk, eyes not meeting Illya’s and Illya’s left wondering what’s going on with the American. He wants the old Napoleon back, not this man who’s head is somewhere in the clouds, probably thinking of that man Mark and his proposition. Maybe Napoleon’s already thinking about New York, thinking about going home. Maybe he is—

Illya is suddenly scared of losing him.

“Did you love him?”

If Napoleon is surprised at all, he doesn’t show it, merely smirks at Illya’s sudden, out of the blue, question.

“That’s rather forward coming from you. Why would you care at all, Peril?” Napoleon asks. Illya’s open up a leeway for him and he’s going to get some answers he thinks he deserves. “Illya?”

“You don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to.”

But Napoleon wants to answer him because he wants Illya to know it’s not Mark he’s thinking of. It’s not about going back to New York. He is thinking of Illya and whether he wants him to stay at all. Whether him being around matters. Napoleon wants a lot of things, and he wants this impossibly difficult man in front of him.

A second later, Napoleon realises Illya is still staring at him, perhaps waiting for an answer. Napoleon sighs, looks down at his hands on his desk. Perhaps this thing could be resolved if he tells Illya the truth.

“We were good together and admittedly I did care for him. There, does that satisfy you now?”

“What happened then?” Illya asks, really wanting to understand, brushes aside that little fact Napoleon had told him.

Should Napoleon say he had caught Mark cheating on him after they had had a heated argument one drunken night? Should he tell Illya, that although he had forgiven him, their relationship never went back to how they had been before? In the end, he decides otherwise, decides to cut the story short, simply says, “The CIA caught up with me, we lost touch with each other and I’d never seen him again after that.”

But somewhere between Napoleon’s first and last words, Illya could feel the hurt in Napoleon’s tone of voice.

“He hurt you. Didn't he?”

Napoleon does not answer Illya.

 

***

 

“You’ve made your decision?”

Hours later, they are somehow still dwelling on the same subject. Illya clears his throat loudly. “Solo?”

Napoleon tilts his head. “Still thinking about it. You think Waverly will let me go?”

“You have to ask him,” Illya grunts.

“You think I should go?”

Illya thinks, _No. You should stay. You belong here with me. Not with him. He had hurt you once. He'd hurt you again_.

“I cannot answer that for you. You should know what you want for yourself.”

 _I know what I want but I can’t really say it out loud, can I?_ Napoleon wonders. He leaves his chair and walks towards the window in their office. His fingers separate the blinds and he murmurs lowly as he looks at the streets below.

“Any reason you think I should stay then?” Napoleon twists his question.

When Illya remains silent, he turns his head, looks over his shoulder to see Illya staring at him with an almost sad expression. “Any reason at all, Peril?”

“I do not think any reason would stop you if you are set on leaving us.”

Napoleon breathes in. Illya’s answer is like a wake up call for him, but he tries again. “Maybe I just can’t see it? Maybe it takes you to show me something I’m simply oblivious to?”

 _Why do you keep doing this, Solo? Are you trying to silently kill me with your words?_ Illya laments to himself. Feeling annoyed, he quickly averts the American’s gaze. If Napoleon wants to stay, then he has to figure out the reasons himself.

“At this moment in time, I cannot think of any reasons, Cowboy,” he mutters, inadvertently telling Napoleon what he really doesn’t want to know. With a soft sigh, he nods at the Russian before turning away, eyes on the streets below once again.

“Right. Of course,” is all he says after that, voice hollow. What’s the point in staying with UNCLE if Illya can’t even give him one?

The next day, after thinking and deliberating over it the night before, he lets Waverly know of his decision to leave UNCLE. It probably is a knee-jerk reaction from his part, but that’s the least of his problems. He figures if he leaves with Mark, takes up his offer, it wouldn’t be so bad. He’ll be doing something he loves and he knows Mark, they have got history and he’s comfortable with him. He should be able to forget Illya, life would go on for them, for _him_. They are grown men, spies, accustomed to a world where a little bit of hurt will not break them. Besides, he is certain Illya would be fine. He has a career with UNCLE and he has Gaby. Illya’s happy and that’s all that matters. That’s the end game.

And Waverly, surprisingly, has no qualms at all to let him go despite always saying he is his best agent. Napoleon thought he’d fight for him a little, thought he would make it difficult. But the Brit only explains his decision, says he is not Sanders, says it is not in UNCLE’s policy to keep an agent that wants out although there would definitely be protocols they would need to adhere to before he could let Napoleon leave. And if Napoleon thinks Waverly is going to make his exit from the organisation a breeze by matter of him following protocols and filling up a dozen or so paperworks, then he would have to reassess what he thinks of his pragmatic superior. Because once he has made his decision known, he is immediately assigned to a case.

“A final case for you, Solo,” Waverly had said, “a simple extraction to get the daughter of a British diplomat, in hiding after she is suspected of murdering her lover, the son of a very important German aristocrat. The girl is now wanted by the German authorities and we are to get to her before they do.”

“Can’t she go to the British Embassy? Diplomatic immunity on those grounds would protect her,” Napoleon had stated his case but realised later the reasons for their involvement are needed because the case is not as clear-cut as it seemed.

“We owe the ambassador this favour. You and Kuryakin are to get her out, meet with our contacts at the designated place to get Miss Dormer. Our backup agents will assist you both once you get Miss Dormer to the extraction point, the Berlin Kreuzberg waterfront.”

While Waverly is busy explaining the mission to Napoleon, Illya feels like his gut had been punched. Not only is Napoleon leaving, but to return to the place where everything had started for them, for their final case together, seems just like a cruel irony. He desperately wants to vent, feels like destroying every single thing he could lay his hands on in Waverly’s office. But that tiny voice echoing in his head, telling him _‘what's the point, Kuryakin? You’re not getting him back anyway. What’s the point?’_ , manages to stop him from tipping over the edge. It is his own fault anyway. Napoleon had asked him for reasons to stay and he didn’t give him any. Not like it would have made a difference but still, Illya could not help but think he’d had a hand in Napoleon’s decision to leave.

And now, Waverly has assigned them their last mission together.

His eyes flick at Napoleon sitting by his side, and he does not look at all perturbed, his face a mask of calmness, although Illya thought he had seen his eyes glisten. Realising he is being stared at, Napoleon turns at the Russian, and Illya, he doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch, merely continues to stare until Napoleon has to give in, returns his attention once again on Waverly.

Once they’ve read and understood their mission dossiers, they fly out to their rendezvous point the next night. The mission is needed to be handled swiftly, leaving them only twenty-four hours to complete it. With that, there is simply no time for either Illya or Napoleon to have any amiable moment together, to discuss anything other than their mission at hand. In a way, Illya is silently thankful for it because he is not sure he would be able to endure the agony of being with Napoleon too long knowing how everything was going to end between them. But Illya is only human, and there was no way he could have predicted how the mission, who had to his surprise go swimmingly well, had ended up with him tending to Napoleon’s bleeding head wound in their little hotel room.

“Please, do me a favour and thank Waverly for this lovely parting gift,” Napoleon says, despite the throbbing pain in his head. Illya’s hands on him are gentle although he really wants to strangle his partner for being such a trouble magnet.

“You can tell him yourself when we return to London.”

“You are no fun,” Napoleon pouts. Illya just rolls his eyes.

“Fun are not for spies.”

Napoleon shrugs. “But I’d enjoyed our time together, nevertheless.”

“Cowboy,” Illya says, like a warning for Napoleon not to push it any further, but being Napoleon, he just does not know when to stop.

“Granted that this is our last mission together, it would have been a terrible way for me to go if the bullet had—”

“Shut up, Solo, just shut up,” Illya cuts him off, angry that such a thought had crossed Napoleon’s mind.

“But you do know that none of this is my fault?” he says, tries to gain some sympathy from Illya. And Illya knows Napoleon is right. It definitely wasn’t.

They had made it to the exit as planned, Miss Dormer had been handed over to UNCLE’s agents on standby, when a stray bullet, meant for the girl, had grazed Napoleon’s temple. Everything had happened so fast, Illya was not sure what had happened at first. There had been a commotion, gunshots, and agents dashing for cover. But when his eyes spotted Napoleon on the ground, he had almost stopped breathing, could only watched in horror as terror seized him over.

“Agent down!” was all he had heard, all he'd seen, as his fellow agents scrambled towards Napoleon. His heart thudded in his ears, his feet rooted to the spot, unable to move for a couple of long seconds. During that moment, Illya thought he had lost his world.

“Solo, _Cowboy. No,_ ” he had muttered as he came to realise what had happened, his voice sharp and overwrought. “No, _please_ , no.”

He had come skidding to Napoleon’s side, pushing the other agents attending to Napoleon away with his body and had let out a shuddery breath when he had heard Napoleon’s pained groan. He was alive, Napoleon’s alive, he had repeated over and over in his head like a silent mantra. And when Napoleon had opened his eyes, Illya had never been more glad to see those pretty blue eyes of his, so blue even under the dim light of the night.

“I’m sorry,” Napoleon says suddenly, sounding almost surprised at himself, pulling Illya out of his thoughts. “I keep making you worry, don’t I? Hard habit for me to break.”

“Is not your fault,” says Illya stiffly.

He is now standing in the bathroom by the washbasin, his hands busy with the wet cloth he had used to clean Napoleon’s wound. “We didn’t see it coming. Careless mistake, Cowboy.”

“No, Illya. Not saying it just for tonight. I know I’m reckless. And you’re always there to help me pick up the pieces after each and ever screw up I make. What would I be without you?”

Illya tries to pretend that he is not affected by Napoleon’s sudden need to spill out whatever it is that is in his head at the moment. For a moment he just continues to stare at the cloth in his hands, furiously washing Napoleon’s blood away, not wanting to look at his partner. But then he hears Napoleon calling out his name, his voice soft, almost pleading, and Illya gives in.

“We always do what we need to do. We protect each other,” he murmurs before turning to face Napoleon. “You’ve done things for me too, Cowboy, a lot of things. Do not need to sell yourself short.”

“I’m not. It’s just that—” Napoleon stops, pauses. He leans his head back against the cushion of the sofa he’s sitting on. 

Illya is now at the bedroom doorway, eyes intense on him, and his heart pounds as he waits for what Napoleon has to say.

“I’m grateful for you, Peril.”

As he stands before him, Illya regards Napoleon carefully. He remembers that day when they'd celebrated their first mission together, obliterating the Vinciguerras, burning that disc to their superiors’ chagrin, only to find out that wouldn’t be the last they’d see of each other. Somehow, that had seem a lifetime ago. How would he have known then that Napoleon would be someone he would lose his heart to?

“Well, at least you won’t need to do this again,” Napoleon quips, and he means for it to come out light, teasing, but it doesn’t, it doesn’t at all, and something changes in Illya’s expression.

“Do not think this makes me feel any better,” he says in a pained voice. “It doesn’t, Solo.”

“Illya. It was a joke. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Of course. You are the one that’s leaving. So this does not affect you, right?”

The words leave Illya’s mouth in haste, probably out of annoyance, but now they remain suspended in the sudden silence between both men.

Napoleon’s staring at him, a little wide-eyed, realises he has royally screwed up again. But if he had his way, he really wants to vent, wants to scream at Illya for thinking he is having it easy. _‘You did not give me a fucking chance, you said me leaving is entirely up to me. Now you are saying it is affecting you? Fuck you, Illya, just fuck you’_. But in the end, he could only offer Illya his meek apology.

“I’m sorry, a bit insensitive of me, that,” he mutters as he looks away from Illya’s boring eyes. Illya does not try to refute him but despite the deep frustration he’s feeling at the moment, he finds himself stepping into Napoleon’s personal space. Napoleon frowns at the towering Russian.

“Are you going to hit me? Because I am still injured.” 

“Shut up, idiot.” 

There is a beat or two, a slight hesitance, and then, surprising himself, Illya pulls Napoleon up to his feet before wrapping his arms around Napoleon’s shoulders. He leans his head down, hides his face at the crook of the American’s neck and Napoleon, stunned at first, quickly circles his arms around Illya’s neck, holding him tight, murmurs his apologies over and over again.

“You are an idiot, Cowboy,” Illya chokes and Napoleon just says _I know_ , tugs Illya closer till their chests are flushed, and his nose is nuzzling at the soft spot behind Illya’s ear. It is so easy for Napoleon to press his lips there, at that stretch of skin, and if he nudges up a little, he could pull Illya in for a kiss. But he doesn’t. He can’t ruin this. He won’t.

And Illya, he just embraces the moment, closes his eyes and holds onto Napoleon, blocking out everything else, and if he doesn’t get to have the man, at least he will have _this_ , at least he will have tonight.

 

***

 

A day after returning from Berlin, Napoleon is in his office finishing off the last of his overdue mission reports and all the paperwork he needs to complete before he is to leave for New York at the end of the week. Illya has been given a few days off, which Napoleon thinks is a good decision on Waverly’s part. They needed the space from each other especially after what had happened in Berlin. Illya’s behaviour that night had confused Napoleon and being around Illya further would have made things worse. He needs a clear head for the next couple of days and no distraction from a particular brooding Russian would certainly do him good. But his quiet and rather an uneventful day is suddenly interrupted when Gaby barges into his office with a frown adorning her pretty face.

“Illya says you are leaving us.”

“He is quite right,” Napoleon answers, his voice calm, collected, although he is a bit worried what Gaby will do next. “You’re not angry, are you?”

Without a word, Gaby proceeds to drag Illya’s vacant chair from behind the Russian’s desk to Napoleon’s side, plops herself down next to him in the hopes that she could talk him out of his stupid decision. She never imagined the idea of Napoleon leaving them would despair her, but it does. Napoleon is one of the two most important people in her life, and even if he constantly annoys her, Gaby adores the man.

“You can’t leave, Solo.”

Napoleon hums. “Why? Illya couldn’t give me any reasons at all why I should stay. Could you do better than Peril?”

“Because I don’t want you to leave, because I want you here. Because we won’t be the same without you. And because I’ll miss you, you insufferable bastard,” Gaby says indignantly.

Napoleon wishes those words had come out of Illya’s mouth just as easily as it had come from Gaby’s. He sighs.

“Peril’s not so good with words then.”

“You should know him better after a year of spending almost every day with him,” she reasons.

Not exactly every day. There had been nights as well. And there were many moments during their times alone, hold up somewhere in a safe house or in a hotel room, when he’s in Illya’s capable hands staunching his wounds, arms comforting him, telling him he’ll be okay and that he’s safe, when Napoleon almost confessed how much he wants the Russian. The last event in Berlin had been his final chance and he had blown it like countless times before. The desperate wanting and longing on his miserable part are beyond laughable. Because he’s a coward, losing his nerve each and every time he almost dares to say what he feels for Illya out loud.

“I heard what happened in Berlin,” Gaby says, suddenly changing the subject, her voice soft. “How’s your head? Feeling better?”

“I’ve had worse,” Napoleon replies and his answer somehow earns him a glare from Gaby.

“You had Illya worried.”

“You know how Peril is, although I must say he’s getting better at his bandaging skills. Surprisingly, he didn’t try to kill me himself this time after the unfortunate incident. You know how he gets agitated every time I need his help,” says Napoleon.

Absently skimming his fingers on the gauze covering his temple, he smiles when he recalls how Illya had tended to it with such care despite furious he had gone and got himself injured again.

“Illya cares about you, Solo.”

Napoleon turns to Gaby and hums, says, “I know.” But that’s not enough. It is never enough. Illya only cares. And Napoleon wants more.

It must have been obvious what he was thinking because suddenly Gaby’s giving him a look that is not quite hard to decipher. He ignores it though because he doesn’t want Gaby to scrutinise him further. But he had talked about Illya with such fondness in his eyes he didn’t realise it had made Gaby's heart flutter with the knowledge of how two of her favourite boys are such hopeless idiots when it comes to matters of the heart. Maybe she should take their matters into her own hands.

“Don’t go, Solo. What would we be without you? It won’t be the same. Illya will not take it well.”

Napoleon eyes her curiously. “No. You and Illya would be just fine.”

“No, we won’t. And you know this. Especially not Illya.”

“He’ll be fine, Gaby. Trust me. He’s not the Russian Red Peril if he can’t handle me leaving for New York.”

Annoyed that she is not able to get through Napoleon’s stubbornness, Gaby decides maybe she could get Illya to do what she couldn’t, so she storms into Illya’s apartment a couple of hours later. But when she finds him on his favourite couch, playing chess alone like there isn’t some catastrophic matter that needs to be handled, she lets out an exasperated sigh, throws her hands up in frustration.

“Illya? You can’t even try to dissuade Solo from leaving, can you?”

Illya is startled at first at Gaby’s sudden entrance and outburst, for a moment regretting giving her his apartment’s set of spare keys. She’s standing there before him, hands on hip, looking a little wide-eyed and angry; like a lioness ready to pounce on its prey. And Illya cannot help but scoff at the ridiculous thought that had entered his head. The more he thinks about it, the more he thinks Gaby is like an angry kitten instead of a lioness.

“Illya? Did you hear what I’d said?”

Of course, Illya had heard her the first time. He merely wanted to avoid talking about Napoleon, and he understands perfectly well why Gaby is currently staring daggers at him.

“He shouldn’t need to be dissuaded if he wants to leave. Obviously, Cowboy wants to go.”

Gaby listens, shakes her head at Illya’s reasoning. “Men are idiots!”

“He is an adult. He can make own decisions,” he says as he returns his attention once again on his chessboard. But his concentration is definitely broken.

“Illya, he would have liked to know you’d want him to stay, at least. Don’t you? I know you don’t want him to leave. And you can’t expect me to guide you lovebirds on what to do to resolve this matter? Tell him how you feel!”

Illya’s eyes widen. He wants to argue at Gaby’s preposterous words. Napoleon and him? Lovebirds? That’s insane. Gaby can’t quite possibly know what he feels for Napoleon. But she is giving him that look; the look that tells him she understands, that she knows. Illya swallows hard. 

“I tried to tell him this,” he whispers. 

“When?” she asks, surprised at the little revelation. Napoleon never mentioned this so it must be something Illya had kept from them. “Illya?”

Illya gazes up at Gaby who is still standing in front of him. He mulls his words as he tries to tell her about Napoleon, about how he keeps thinking about that goddamn American; of his distracting blue eyes, the slice of his cheekbones, of his hair, dark and luscious that Illya sometimes wants to run his fingers through it. He wants to tell her how he memorises every single thing there is about Napoleon. He wants to tell her how wrecked he was at Napoleon’s decision to leave. And that he wanted to beg him to stay, which was what he had done the same night he had found out about it. 

“I went to his apartment before we left for Berlin. But I saw Mark entering his apartment. I changed my mind. I knew then what Solo wants to do. Should not waste my breath trying to convince him to stay.”

Gaby just stands there motionless as Illya lays it out to her. She stares at him for a long moment until Illya has to look away. 

“I do not want your pity, Gaby,” he mumbles but then slender arms are wrapped around his shoulders tight.

“Oh, Illya, that’s not even—” but Gaby doesn’t finish her sentence but only hugs him tighter. 

 

***

 

“I’m excited for New York, aren’t you?”

Mark arrived an hour ago for dinner and after cleaning up, they are now on Napoleon’s couch having a couple of casual drinks. Mark has been talking non-stop, about what he plans for their art gallery, about what he has got lined up for the both of them, but somehow everything just goes right through Napoleon’s head. His thoughts are currently preoccupied with a certain Russian man and although it’s annoying him to a hilt, he’s rather helpless to make it go away. In fact, he has been thinking about Illya ever since Gaby’s visit a few days back.

“Hey, are you with me?” Mark points out when he sees Napoleon’s rather pensive mood. “I can’t be the only one excited about tomorrow. It’s our big day.”

“I’m just tired, that’s all,” Napoleon says, puts down his empty glass on the coffee table in front of them before leaning back again on the couch. “Berlin was just a few days back. Hadn’t had much time to recuperate. Haven’t even finished packing, in fact.”

“That won’t be a problem. That’s what I’m here for. I’ll help you with that,” Mark smiles. 

His fingers soon fall on Napoleon’s nape, caressing the skin there gently. “It’s good you’re leaving this spying business. It’s too dangerous for my liking.”

Napoleon regards the man at his side for a moment, tries to ignore his hand that has wondered too tantalisingly close. “You now worry for me? What about when I was galavanting around as a thief?”

“I never approved of it, you know that. And I did worry. And it’s good that I have someone to worry for again. I’ve missed you.”

Mark suddenly leans forward, strokes his other hand down Napoleon’s face. But as he is about to kiss him, Napoleon pulls back. 

“Leo, what’s wrong?”

“It’s strange hearing you call me that. And if I recall clearly, we did agree that for me to come to New York, for all of this to work, our relationship would be strictly platonic,” Napoleon says.

He is now on his feet and Mark’s looking completely puzzled at his behaviour. 

“Yes, we did say that but then there’s nothing wrong in this if we both want it,” says Mark, who is now on his feet too.

And then that is when Napoleon realises Mark had totally misunderstood his intention when he had agreed to come to New York. As he deliberates, figuring the right way on how to tell him, Mark takes the opportunity to close the gap between them. 

“Come on, Napoleon, you do want this, don’t you?” he says, a hand now sliding up his shoulder, grappling at his shirt collar, trying to pull him near. But Napoleon politely refuses, pushes him back gently. 

“No. We can’t Mark. I can’t. And I don’t think I can go to New York either.”

Mark frowns as he takes a step back from Napoleon. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I can’t go to New York. It’s not going to work. It’s not what I want. Not really.”

There is a slight anguish now on Mark’s face. “What brings this sudden change of mind? Is it because I’d tried to start something up again with us? Because if that’s the reason, then I—”

“No, it’s not that. It’s me. It’s not you. I thought I wanted this, but I really don’t. There are things that I need, I need to take care of here. If I leave it unresolved I won’t be able to forgive myself.”

“Must be something pretty important that’s holding you back then,” Mark says, bitter.

Napoleon smiles inwardly, thinks of Illya and his ways that just perfects his own imperfections. And there is no other answer to he could give Mark other than, “Yes, it is pretty damn important.”

To that, Mark just nods as if understanding.

For a moment, both men just stare at the other silently. Napoleon is feeling worse by the minute, knows the entire mess is his own doing. He should have never entertained the idea of leaving in the first place but his feelings for Illya, and his foolish notion that he is able to go through with it, had pushed him into doing the unthinkable. And now he has managed to hurt Mark as well.

“I’m so sorry, Mark,” he mutters his apology again, the only thing he could really do.

“Somehow, I can’t hold it against you,” Mark says.

At once straightening himself, Mark makes a move to grab his jacket which is draped on the back of the couch, puts it on quickly while avoiding Napoleon’s eyes. Taking a deep breath, he then says, “Well, that’s that then. No New York for you.”

“But if and whenever I drop by, we could catch up,” Napoleon offers and Mark just shakes his head and chuckles. 

“You know when I saw you in that bar in Monaco, I thought I’d seen a ghost from my past. I was shocked to see you, thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. But then I called you and you turned. I knew then I wasn’t mistaken. It was indeed you. But then I saw you and your friend apprehending that guy with guns in your hands, I thought to myself, maybe this is not the Napoleon Solo I had come to know all those years before. I don’t really know this new Napoleon.”

“I guess you don’t,” Napoleon says apologetically.

Not wanting to waste further time, Mark moves towards the door, hands now on the doorknob. “For what it’s worth, it was good seeing you again, Leo.”

Napoleon feels a brief stab of guilt at Mark’s words. “I’m sorry again, Mark.”

Mark nods before finally disappearing out the door. Once he is gone, Napoleon quickly locks the door and leans against it, his body sagging in relief. He’s not proud of himself but it needed to be done. He cannot add another mistake to a list of errors he’s already committed in his life. And if he had gone through with it, it probably would be his biggest mistake. He is about to move from the door when a knock is heard and Napoleon opens it without even thinking twice.

“Mark, I thought there’s nothing to talk about anymore.” 

He is shocked, however, to see Illya standing there in the hallway with an uncertain look on his face, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. 

“Oh, hey, Peril,” Napoleon starts. “Never expected it to be you.” 

Illya shrugs. “Are you expecting someone else?”

“No, no. Come on in,” Napoleon says, steps aside to let Illya in.

“How’s your head?” Illya gestures at the healing wound on his temple once they are inside. Napoleon dismisses his concern immediately. “I'm fine. It was nothing.”

Illya scoffs at his partner. “Fine? You almost bled to death.”

“Now, Peril, I think that is over exaggerating it just a little bit. You know how head wounds are. It had looked a lot worse than what it seemed. You were there. You staunched it,” Napoleon argues with a slight quirk of his lips.

“Whatever, still not something I like to see during missions.”

Napoleon only smiles after that but it almost does not reach his blue eyes. And Illya’s gut twists, unable to shake off the ache he is feeling at the moment. His eyes stray from Napoleon’s almost scrutinising gaze and lets them drift around the room of the American’s apartment. There are opened boxes everywhere but most of it are empty. Some of his favourite art pieces are still hanging on the walls. Illya then peeks through Napoleon’s bedroom door. His bed is made with those expensive, high thread count Egyptian sheets, no clothes or suitcases lined up anywhere. And then he wonders. 

“You have not finished packing.”

He knows Napoleon is to leave tomorrow, so why doesn’t the place look like someone is about to leave London for good?

“No, no I haven’t,” Napoleon answers and then Illya is staring at him.

“What’s going on?” he eventually asks. “You are leaving tomorrow, aren’t you?”

Napoleon should really tell Illya the truth, that he has decided to stay after all but decides to keep it to himself for a little while longer. Shifting from where he is standing in the middle of the room, he then pads over towards his kitchen. Leaning against the counter, he proceeds to pour himself a drink from his tumbler which is assembled on top of it.

“You want some?” he says, offering a glass to Illya. Illya just shakes his head.

“No, I don’t want one. I want to know what’s going on with you.”

“Nothing’s going on, Peril. You’re not here just to check on my well-being, are you?”

Illya decides to cut straight to the chase. Dragging himself here had already caused himself distress and he doesn’t intend on prolonging it any longer.

“On my way up here, I saw your friend leaving the building. Doesn’t look too happy for someone who is about to leave town with boyfriend.”

Napoleon cannot help but chuckle at that, at how atrocious Illya had made it sound. “Only you can make the term boyfriend sound so unappealing.”

He turns serious once again, coughs, understanding Illya is not amused. But when he is about to tell Illya the truth, the Russian cuts him off.

“You keep asking me to give you reasons why you should not go, Solo.”

“And are you here to give me reasons? Because I think it’s a bit too late for that.”

Napoleon knows he is being cruel, but his pride and ego get the better of him. He takes a large swig of his drink before turning on Illya again.

“Illya, don’t you think it's a little too late?” 

Illya closes his eyes hearing Napoleon’s rather cruel words which he truly deserves. “I didn’t think you would need reason to stay.”

“You told me that I should follow my heart, do what I really want to do. That in any circumstances, the answers lie with me and that it shouldn’t be you telling me what to do,” Napoleon says, pushing Illya on. 

“Yes. I did say that.” The regret in Illya’s voice is apparent. 

“And you’re right.”

“Gaby told me that she will miss you when you’re gone. Despite you annoying her so much.”

Illya tries to change the subject but his efforts are futile. Napoleon is not going to dance to his tune, merely presses on, elevating Illya’s nerves.

“What about you? Won’t you miss me at all, Peril?”

It shouldn’t be so hard to get the words out. It should be a simple yes or no. Still, they are stuck in Illya’s throat. He fidgets, swallows once and just forces the words out. “Maybe. Yes.”

He waits for some kind of taunt from Napoleon, a smart remark, anything that might break the tension that has risen a few notches higher the last couple of seconds, but none came. For the first time ever, Illya thinks he might have rendered Napoleon speechless.

“Is it not a good idea for me to be here?” Illya asks all of a sudden and that brings Napoleon out of his stupor. He gives Illya a head shake. The glass in his hand is now left on the counter. Illya realises he is striding towards him, making him nervous. Napoleon stops once he is close enough, too close that he’s able to touch Illya’s shoulder just by reaching out an arm. Illya wants to back away but some invisible force is stopping him from doing so.

“I’m not sure if you remember this, but I’d asked you once, when we first started with UNCLE, whether you would leave if given a choice. To start anew. I think you’d said yes, if the circumstance was right,” Napoleon starts, surprising Illya with his question.

Illya nods. “Yes, I did say this.”

“So, let me ask you again. Would you leave us, me and Gaby, right now at this moment? After all we’ve been through?”

Thinks, _‘I can’t leave you, Cowboy. Never in a million years’_. Says, “maybe, if the reasons are right,” instead.

“Even Gaby?” asks Napoleon.

“Gaby?” 

“You wouldn’t leave her, would you? Because she means the world to you. She’d be the reason enough. For you to stay.”

Does Napoleon think they are together? Cowboy should know better. “You are getting it wrong, Cowboy.”

“But you _would_ stay for her.”

“I would stay for the both of you.”

“Would you stay if it was just for me?” Napoleon questions him softly, his voice sounding meeker than he had intended. His heart pounds when he sees Illya’s questioning gaze.

“Do you mean…”

“Exactly what my question states,” he says, then adds a little boldly, the selfish bit in him needing to know Illya’s stand. “Would you stay if it was just for me?”

Napoleon’s manipulative question, turning things around so he would have Illya say what he wants to hear turns Illya on the defensive. Just as quick, Illya throws Napoleon his own question, not wanting to back down. “Why do you need to know this? Obviously, you are leaving despite me and Gaby still here for you. You have no hesitation to leave.”

That nasty jab from Illya hurts, and it sparks something in Napoleon, something that tells him he should stop the stupid charade he’s putting on for his partner.

“I am not leaving Peril.”

The end game.

Even if he cannot quite believe what he is hearing, Illya’s heart soars, like he is given a lifeline. But he tamps it down it quickly. Napoleon is probably giving him a glimmer of hope he doesn’t need. Recollecting himself a little, Illya then asks, “You said you wanted to leave. Why you did not say this sooner? Is this some kind of game?”

“Not a game.”

“Then what is this?” Illya asks, his brows furrowing together. His confusion is growing by the minute. “Solo?”

“I never really wanted to leave, Peril,” Napoleon sighs as he rakes his fingers through his hair, stutters, “I was—I was merely seeking for reasons to justify why I should. I wanted _you_ to give me reasons. And you almost did.”

“I did not give you any reasons to leave.”

“You did when you couldn’t give me a reason to stay.”

Illya shakes his head at Napoleon. A cynical smile is playing on his lips. “What changed your mind?”

“You did.”

Despite the slight annoyance he is feeling, Illya cannot help but think the dim candle he has been holding out is getting brighter and Napoleon’s certainly flaming it with each growing minute. But is he hoping too much?

“I’m still confused, Solo.”

“Mark’s offer is tempting. I can’t deny that. It’s what I would have loved to do. If he’d offer me this a year back I would have accepted it in a heartbeat. But I realised time and being away from it for far too long have changed my priorities. Changed what I wanted most.”

“And what is that?”

“What I have now. Here. With UNCLE. I have Gaby. And I have you. That’s what matters to me now. I can’t give that up.” _I can’t give you up._

“You are staying because of us,” Illya says, incredulous.

“Yes. As crazy as that might sound. The answer is yes. What was I thinking when I’d said I wanted to leave.”

“So we are more important than this Mark?”

Napoleon grins. Illya looks too adorable for his own good. “No competition whatsoever.”

“If there was no Gaby or Waverly, would you stay as well?”

“Peril?”

Illya’s almost afraid to elaborate himself, but he badly needs to know. He’s struck with a wave of emotions just by looking at Napoleon at the moment, the onslaught so strong he feels his insides aching with want. In the end, he could not help himself, asks Napoleon the burning question.

“If it was only me. Would you choose him over me?”

Napoleon’s heart all but stops hearing that. Had Illya really asked him that or has the entire night’s affair taken its toll on him? Napoleon is sure he senses the unmistakable hint of jealousy, coupled with hopefulness in the tone of Illya’s voice. This time, it is not just his wishful thinking.

“Illya? What are you trying to tell me?”

Illya rubs his face in his hands. There is a tired look on his face, a look saying he’s done with denying what he is actually feeling. The fight has left him.

“The other night, that day we were assigned to the Berlin mission, I came here to tell you that you should stay, because I didn’t want you to leave after all, because I didn’t want to lose you, and then I saw Mark entering your apartment. And I—I thought I’d lost my chance. That it is he that you want.”

Napoleon’s taken aback, a little shaken at this knowledge, at what Illya is implying. “Illya you’d never—you’d never told me anything.”

“Other than the fact that I almost tried to tell you this for the last year or so? No, I never did.”

“I always thought you and Gaby—”

“You are an idiot, Cowboy. Yes, Gaby is important to me but you—”

And then Illya stops and silence stretches out between them. His real intention for being there was because he had wanted to beg Napoleon to stay, because his selfish self did not care for Napoleon’s made up mind to go to New York. That was his past. Illya wanted to make Napoleon see his future. But all that was before he knew Napoleon’s not leaving. Now, there is no need for games and charades anymore. Now, after finally admitting to Napoleon his feelings, he is prepared to get shot down because he has braved it so far. But when the silence starts to grow a little bit awkward, Illya’s confidence wavers and his hesitance starts to return once again.

His stomach twists painfully. He has probably ruined their friendship with his admission. He’s read the entire thing wrong. He’s horrified.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve made mistake.”

Napoleon still says nothing.

“I’ll go,” Illya chokes, feels horrible, hopes the ground could open and swallow him whole at the moment. And then he starts for the door.

But that is when Napoleon comes back to his senses, rushes up behind Illya and turns him around to face him.

“Cowboy, what?” Illya starts in surprise when Napoleon shoves him up against the closed door

Illya blinks at Napoleon, thinks Napoleon might punch him for implying he’s all right with what Illya had said, that he’s okay with something as ridiculous as Illya’s idea of them being together, but Napoleon doesn’t do any of that, doesn’t say a word, instead he reaches up and grabs a fistful of Illya’s hair, pulls him down into a hard, searing kiss.

Illya freezes, wide-eyed, his brain shutting down at the contact of their lips and then Napoleon parts his mouth, and Illya, Illya groans and closes his eyes, let his tongue slides into the recesses of that mouth he daily catches a glimpse of, his hands coming up to grip Napoleon’s shoulders, his arms, cups his face and neck, _all over_. He kisses Napoleon like he’s deprived of air, like kissing him is breathing some new life into him, kisses him like he’ll never get to do it again.

Napoleon pulls back panting, catching his breath, and Illya says, “you’ll be the death of me, Solo,” and Napoleon gasps out, “Fuck, that’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me,” and before anything, they are kissing again, his arms going around Illya’s neck and he wonders, despite the haze in his brain, how and when had they changed position because Illya is now pinning him against the door. But he doesn’t mind, Illya could pin him against anything, could make him bleed for all he cared. Because this is Illya, Illya finally admitting to something he has been longing to hear for a long time.

They continue to kiss each other until their lips are bruised, doesn’t stop even for a second’s respite. Illya wants this, cannot believe he is having this, and he never wants it to end. The little whimpers from Napoleon send shivers down his spine, and he takes his moans in, licks Napoleon’s mouth, his lips, his teeth. His fingers run through Napoleon’s dark hair, and suddenly Illya feels like he’s not getting enough of the American. Like a person possessed, he grinds into him harder and Napoleon arches his neck so Illya can kiss him deeper, harder.

“Illya,” he moans when the Russian licks his jaw and then down to his neck, making him dizzy and unhinged.

Illya fears he might break Napoleon, so he stops his ministrations on Napoleon hides his face at the juncture of his neck. But he finds himself kissing him there softly, the touch of his lips tender. His hands are still gripping Napoleon tight, fingers digging into his arms.

“You know now why I came here?” he murmurs shakily before lifting his head up again so their eyes could meet. “You understand my reason?”

“You came here with the intention of stopping me from potentially making the biggest mistake of my life. To stop me from leaving,” Napoleon says, gauging Illya’s thoughts, foreheads now leaning against each other, ragged breaths still on each other’s lips.

“Somewhat.”

“You would convince me to stay even if I’d made up my mind to leave? At any cost?”

“I don’t want you to go. Which part of that you don’t understand?”

Napoleon knows this, because what fucking else could it be? And Illya’s voice, God, his voice, so low and hoarse, and Napoleon thinks why had he never seen it before? If he had, perhaps he’s been blindsided by the Russian’s repressed emotions. But he couldn’t blame Illya, he’s just as bad as well.

“Illya,” he starts again but then Illya cuts him off.

“Don’t think I can be around you anymore without me wanting to do this again.”

Cupping Napoleon’s face in both his hands, Illya presses his lips on his, softly at first, letting his lips move slowly, just licking the outsides but when Napoleon sighs, he slides his tongue in, to caress his insides, slowly stroking and exploring, making Napoleon melt. A low groan escapes his lips when Napoleon takes the initiative to bite down gently on his bottom lip. “We shouldn’t hold back any longer.”

And with that, Napoleon kisses Illya, his tongue thrusting and caressing urgently into the hot caverns of the Russian’s mouth. He traces every crevice and sucks his tongue at the same time, almost making Illya’s knees buckle in response.

“Solo,” he says breathlessly as Napoleon is now delicately tracing his lips and tongue along his ear, biting the lobe, nipping and teasing, before muttering in a low voice, “I want you to show me, Illya. How much I would’ve missed if I had left, if I had followed Mark.”

Hearing that name, a deep rumbling growl escapes Illya’s throat, his breath hitching at the same time. His eyes darken and without giving it further thought, he ravishes Napoleon’s mouth in another bruising kiss, kisses him long and hard until Napoleon’s is gasping for breath. When he lets go, Illya grips Napoleon’s hair tight, tilting his neck while his lips proceed to roam his skin, sliding along his jawline, tasting the hot skin, tracing his tongue along the curve of his neck. Napoleon gasps when he feels teeth grazing the hollow on his throat and when Illya bites, his head tilts back further, with a breathless cry escaping his lips. Illya smooths the reddened area with his tongue, whispers, “I want you” in Napoleon’s ear.

Napoleon shudders as he looks into Illya’s heavy-lidded eyes, full of fiery passion for him. Slowly but surely, Napoleon then takes his shirt off, letting the clothing slide of his shoulders before watching Illya do the same. After the last piece of clothing is removed from their bodies, both of them stand in front of the other, chest heaving, eyes bright and wide on each other, furiously blushing at the fact that they are about to do what they had dreamt ages ago for the very first time.

Not wanting to wait any longer, afraid that maybe Napoleon might change his mind, Illya then almost drags him towards his bedroom and as Napoleon’s knees hit the edge of the bed, Illya pushes him down with him crawling on top of Napoleon, arms now braced on either side of Napoleon’s shoulders. Illya takes the time to gaze down Napoleon’s naked body, which is now sprawled gloriously before him. He bends down to flick a tongue on his exposed throat, giving him a long lick downwards and Napoleon arches his neck to give the Russian more access.

“I’ve dreamt about this,” Illya mutters against his hot skin. He then lowers his lips to Napoleon’s naked chest, taking a nipple into his mouth to suck at it gently. A sharp intake of breath escapes Napoleon’s lips as Illya continues to suck on the hardening nub. Giving the other begging nipple the same treatment, he continues his ministrations, making Napoleon writhe, hands grappling uselessly on the sheets, trying to hold on to something to calm his frantic nerves.

“Damn it, Illya,” he gasps as Illya trails lower, his lips now on a dangerous and alluring path down Napoleon’s flat belly, right to where he really wants it to be. His hands have wandered dangerously low, creeping further downward and when Illya grasps his thighs apart, Napoleon can’t help but arches up against him, his hardening member brushing against Illya’s belly. Napoleon lets out a strangled moan.

“Tell me, Cowboy. Do you want this, because I want you.”

“Fuck, of course, I want this,” Napoleon pants mindlessly, and when Illya’s hand closes around his cock, Napoleon keens, arches up desperately, wanting to feel more, needing to feel more. But Illya lets go as soon as he had started it and Napoleon cries out, disappointed to lose that touch that he had built up inside of him.

“Illya? Why?”

Illya murmurs against his jaw. “I’ve done this before, a long time ago,” looks up into Napoleon’s eyes, “ages ago, with a man. He was my—I was young. Didn’t know what it was then. He was... ”

“I don’t care about who he was to you, what you’d done,” Napoleon says, grasping his cheek. “What matters is now. You, me. That matters, Illya. Please?”

The desperation in his voice is what Illya needs to hear. He needs to know that Napoleon really wants this, really wants him, that he has forgotten Mark. That the man is just a distant memory now for Napoleon. And hearing Napoleon say those reassuring words are proof enough that his partner is ready for this. For _him_. 

Not wanting to wait any longer, Illya then grips Napoleon’s leg with one hand and lowers his face to one inner thigh, nipping and licking it almost too lightly, making Napoleon thrust up in an instant. His hand strokes the opposite thigh with feather light touches and that just drives Napoleon insane. He has never felt so damn hard in his life before and Illya is drugging his senses to the very limit. Illya continues to tease him, feasting on his delicious thighs, licking and teasing, which makes him moan out loud, all the while ignoring and avoiding Napoleon’s most sensitive area.

“Illya, don’t make me beg.”

Illya quirks his lips at that. “Maybe I want you to beg.”

“Come on! Don’t be cruel, Peril— _please?_ ”

“You just begged, Cowboy.”

Napoleon moans and pouts his lips at Illya. When Illya does nothing, he cries out the Russian’s name. He is pleading and begging, his self-control crumbling with every delayed minute. Droplets of sweat are now forming on his temples and his flushed face is so god damned beautiful that Illya decides to relief Napoleon’s distress, doesn't have the heart to continue his torment on him.

Slowly, he takes the head of Napoleon’s length into his mouth. The American cries out as he is slowly engulfed by the wet heat and he bucks wildly until Illya slides his hands along the raised hipbones, holding him down firmly. Eyes squeezed shut, Napoleon’s hands bury themselves in Illya’s hair. As Illya takes the twitching member deeper into his mouth, the moans of his partner grow louder and more incoherent, as Illya strokes and sucks him forcefully with his tongue, running it along the underside of his length while he caresses his sack with his free hand. Napoleon whimpers, throws his head back as he shudders from the intense heat around him.

“Illya, Illya, please, I’m close—”

Incoherent words are said, unable to contain the pleasure that is building up inside of him. Napoleon is close, so so close.

And then Illya stops. He looks at the sight of his Cowboy, helpless underneath him, and never in his wildest dreams thought that this would actually come true. Him and Napoleon in a situation like this. Napoleon stares back with confused eyes, slightly annoyed that Illya had stopped and now is desperate for him to move this along. But before he could protest, Illya leans in to capture his lips, while his hand slides down and circles his throbbing length in his hands, slowly stroking and tugging at it, making him gasp into his mouth. Napoleon moans as he strokes harder and faster, cupping and teasing at the same time, the tip leaking with his pre-cum and Ilya takes the opportunity to moisten his fingers with them. As he runs a finger along the slit, Napoleon bucks his hip forward and tosses his head against the pillows, loving the sensation of Illya’s fingers on his cock.

“Are you ready, Solo?” Illya asks, or rather growls, low in his throat, and he eases one finger inside Napoleon’s tightness but suddenly Napoleon groans and Illya pulls back, worries that he has hurt him.

“I’m sorry,” he breaths against Napoleon’s neck and presses his lips against his hot skin, trying his best to soothe his frenzied nerve. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, don’t, I’m ready, come on, Illya—take me,” Napoleon says somewhat weakly, his eyes still squeezed shut and the Russian coaxes him to open his eyes. “Cowboy, please, I want you to look at me.”

Napoleon slowly does. There is concern in Illya’s eyes. Like he is still thinking.

“Do you want this?”

“You really shouldn’t be asking me this, now.”

Napoleon almost moans when Illya’s fingers tease his opening slightly.

“Cowboy, I just need to know one thing,” he murmurs against his neck, fingers still teasing, and circling.

“What?” Napoleon gasps.

“Did you love him?”

A groan escapes him, almost frustrated at Illya’s question, but Illya does not give him respite when his fingers push in and Napoleon shudders. “Illya, _please_ …”

His fingers are gripping the Russian’s arms, nails digging his skin almost. “I don’t think that…matters now. Not at this moment. Not any more. There are more important matters at hand that you need to take care of.”

Illya pulls his finger and then pushes back, crooks it slightly and then it hits Napoleon’s prostate head on. He moans, arches his back, almost cries when Illya repeats the action a few times.

“Please, Solo. I need to know. Answer me.”

Illya’s demands are punctuated with every thrust of his finger and it is driving Napoleon crazy. And then he stops and he is staring wildly into Napoleon’s eyes. Napoleon gives in when Illya murmurs against his lips. “Tell me, Solo.”

“ _Ahh!_ if it was love then, I don’t know what to call this with you, Illya. Because what I feel for you is nothing like I’ve ever felt before for anyone. Don’t have enough words to describe it, nothing else compares to this, Illya. Nothing. You’ve completely ruined me for anyone else. And that is the truth.”

“There should not be anyone else.”

Napoleon is just seeing this possessive side of Illya, hears it in his voice, thinks how incredibly sexy it is, not that the Russian isn't, but this behaviour, it just makes Napoleon want to submit wholeheartedly to him, wants him to forget all the insecurities that might still linger in his head.

“There isn’t, I swear. There has never really been one. It’s only you, Illya.”

His words, and then his reassuring smile breaks Illya’s defences. “It’s just you,” Napoleon repeats into his mouth and Illya leans down, kisses his eyes and mutters against his lips, “Just relax now, Cowboy,” and he kisses him long and hard, before positioning his fingers again into his entrance. Then he plunges the digit slowly, entering him and then when he starts to move his fingers carefully around him, Napoleon gasps and arches his body up and Illya knows he has found his sweet spot again.

“ _Fuck!_ ” he cries as Illya’s digits withdraw and thrust into him over and over, driving him almost wild. Illya’s breathing quickens as he watches in awe at Napoleon squirming while he continues plunging his fingers into his tight hole. At the same time, his other hand wanders to grasp Napoleon’s erection again, squeezing and stroking, grasping it firmly as Napoleon thrusts willingly into his grip.

“Illya,” Napoleon moans as he tries to gain more contact with Illya’s stroking hand. “Please, Illya…now, can’t wait any longer,” he pants heavily, his eyes boring down Illya’s, desperately tries to voice his aching need.

“Okay, Cowboy?” Illya half asks, half assures Napoleon and, the American, still panting underneath him, manages a weak nod.

Illya smiles at that, feels the ache blooms heavily in his chest and then he is kissing Napoleon again before neatly turning him over so that he is on his hands and knees. Finally, Illya positions himself behind the perfect form of his partner, the head of his cock brushing Napoleon’s entrance. Not wanting to make him wait further, his slick cock slams into him in one swift movement, sheathing Napoleon to the hilt as he screams into his pillow, feeling the thick cock forcing through the muscles that struggle to deny it entrance. Illya grasps Napoleon’s hips with an iron grip to steady him as he pulls out until the tip was touching the smooth cheeks of his buttocks, before thrusting in again. The penetration had hurt, even though Illya had prepared him for it. Napoleon whimpers and squirms as he tries to get used to the hard cock stretching him open. His head falls forward, his sweaty forehead touching the bed as he tries to lessen the pain. He clutches the sheets until his knuckles are white, grits his teeth as he closes his eyes. Illya, sensing Napoleon’s discomfort, stops his movements.

“You are hurt?” he asks, the worried tone in his voice evident. Napoleon only hums, then turns his head, looks at Illya through the corners of his eyes. Illya kisses his shoulder, his neck, and waits. “It’s been a while,” Napoleon says, trembling slightly and then Illya is kissing him on the lips, worries his tongue over it.

“It’ll get better,” he murmurs soothingly into Napoleon’s ear.

“I know it will, just get on with it, Peril. I want it,” Napoleon says with a low keening voice.

Illya just grunts and then, after a second or two, he starts thrusting again into Napoleon’s delightfully tight body, gripping his hips so hard Napoleon is sure he will have bruises there tomorrow. Napoleon soon starts to whimper, moans long and low, air being torn from his lungs. He is too far gone, too caught up in the sensation of everything Illya is giving to him when suddenly, in mid thrust, Illya pauses. Napoleon wants to question what the hell the Russian is thinking by doing that, when he feels one of his giant paws sliding over his back as he pulls out of the American but not pushing back in. With a frustrated groan rumbling deep in his throat, Napoleon lifts his head up as he gazes into Illya’s eyes.

“Illya?”

Without saying a word, Illya carefully guides Napoleon so he’s lying on his back, rather than his stomach. Napoleon groans as Illya then eases his cock back inside him as gentle as possible. Instinctively, he hooks his legs around Illya’s hips, entangles his fingers in his hair. Once Illya is sure Napoleon is ready, he begins to move slowly inside Napoleon once again, starts to gather his pace with each thrust. He notices Napoleon closing his eyes and then Illya is muttering against his parted lips, “Cowboy, Napoleon, _please_ , open your eyes and look at me.”

Napoleon does as he is told, opens his eyes and locks his blue orbs with Illya’s own. There is an instant connection at that moment, a seizing of Illya’s heart and Napoleon’s. Illya does not know what it was but the next thing he knows he is leaning down to catch Napoleon’s already bruised and swollen lips into a hot searing kiss, thrusting his tongue deep into Napoleon’s mouth once again as he changes his angle, searching for Napoleon’s sweet spot once more, trying hard to give as much pleasure as he can to his submissive partner. Napoleon’s already given him so much after all with him not leaving him.

On his third thrust, he finds Napoleon’s prostate again, hitting the sensitive bundle of nerves forcefully and a loud moan of intense pleasure and bliss is ripped from Napoleon’s throat.

“Fuck, Illya!” yells Napoleon as he grips the sheets underneath him with all his might.

Illya is overcome at the sight of Napoleon writhing in ecstatic agony underneath him, his cock twitching ferociously against the Russian’s stomach. He lowers his head to bite at the delicious pale skin that joins Napoleon’s neck and shoulders, hard enough to leave marks, claiming him as his, _his, forever his_ , as he moves inside him. He hits Napoleon’s sweet spot, again and again, purposefully angling his thrusts to meet it, and Napoleon is a wrecked mess, howls and moans, forming incoherent words, his voice starting to grow hoarse from cries of ecstasy. And his back is arching so far it looked like his body might break in half, his knuckles white from clutching at the unraveled sheets.

“Napoleon, I—” Illya tries to say his needs, tries to voice what he is feeling but then Napoleon clutches the Russian’s naked back, raking angry red lines across his skin, hard enough to draw blood as he rocks beneath him. Illya moans as the unyielding muscles clench around him, the heated pressure pushing him to the brink of his own climax.

“Fuck, Solo,” he hisses, and thinks there is an _‘I love you, I love you, I love you so goddamn much ’_ lost somewhere in his thoughts, because he does, he really does, but he can’t find the strength to say it. And to compensate for his weakness, he shows him instead, shows Napoleon by reaching a hand down to stroke Napoleon’s straining cock. At the touch, Napoleon whimpers as he thrusts his pelvis up to meet Illya’s hand.

“Let go, Cowboy. Come for me,” Illya murmurs breathlessly, continues to stroke him, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.

And Napoleon does, because he cannot take it any longer, and with a long and loud cry he comes, jerking his hips violently against Illya’s hand while saying Illya’s name over and over again with a choked voice. Illya loses control at the sight, and he leans down, whispers into Napoleon’s ear what he had failed to say earlier.  He drives two more powerful thrusts into Napoleon before coming himself, his screams of pleasure muffled by Napoleon’s shoulder.

The room is silent for a few moments after that. Both men are waiting for the tremors of their high to subside. They are panting and sweating heavily, their bodies trembling as they hold on to each other, trying to gather their wits and thoughts in the now damp room.

“I’m sorry,” Illya says softly, gazing into Napoleon’s kind eyes after he is able to gather his thoughts back.

“What are you saying sorry for? You just gave me the most mind blowing sex ever and you’re saying sorry? he chuckles softly as he closes his eyes, “There is nothing to be sorry about.”

Illya hides his face on Napoleon's shoulder. And Napoleon takes it as his cue to reassure his now partner turned lover.

“And I heard what you’d said.”

Illya blushes. “I meant it.”

Napoleon reaches up, kisses him, says _‘I know’_ , says _‘I love you too and I’m idiot not to have said it ages ago.’_

 

***

 

When Illya wakes the next morning, Napoleon is curled up next to him, their bodies tangled in the sheets. He leans up a little and blinks, tries to remember the events of last night. A warm, delicious feeling starts to spread all over him at the memory of what they had done, and instantaneously his hand starts to card through the luscious locks of Napoleon’s hair. Napoleon stirs but does not wake, merely curls forward even more, pressing his face against the pillows. Illya remembers Napoleon in his arms, sweat-slicked, hair ruffled, blue eyes wide with something more than just desire, and he smiles, a deep scarlet forming on his cheeks.

His fingers trail Napoleon’s exposed shoulder, and then he is trembling himself, still not quite believing what had happened between them, the sensation of having Napoleon in his arms, holding him and moving against him, _in_ him, and before he knows it, his lips are on Napoleon’s nape, kissing him there, and one arm curls around his waist to pull him closer against his chest. Illya is contented to stay like that the whole morning, hell, he doesn’t ever want to leave the bed, but then, a slight rustling sound from outside the bedroom jerks him upright.

He glances at Napoleon’s still sleeping form, and not wanting to wake him, he carefully slides off the bed. Grabbing Napoleon’s gun he knows the American keeps underneath his nightstand, Illya slowly moves towards the bedroom door, pushes it open and almost cannot believe who he is seeing, casually sitting on the stool by the kitchen counter.

“You must be proud of my lock picking skills, Solo. I managed to get in with only one try. All that training you made me do hasn’t gone to nought. Thought I’d surprise you before you leave.”

Gaby turns around on the stool with coffee cup in hand, but the grin on her lips turns into a shocked gasp when she sees Illya standing by Napoleon’s bedroom doorway—gun at his side, mouth agape, stark naked.

”Illya?”

She covers her mouth in shock, eyes wide and Illya, mind only suddenly clicking and realising his serious lack of clothing, disappears inside quickly, appears again a minute later wearing one of Napoleon’s robes that he could find.

“Gaby, what are you doing here—how did you? How?” Illya stammers. 

“I wondered about the clothes on the floor,” Gaby says instead, gestures on the clothing strewn all over the floor of the living room. “That’s so unlike Solo. Then I saw the turtleneck, the jacket, thought it looked familiar. But I never thought, I figured maybe I was—well, damnit, I guess I was wrong.” 

Although trying her best to be nonchalant as not to make things too awkward between them, Gaby can’t help herself but give Illya a cheeky smile. Her cheeks are still flushed, as are Illya’s beet red ones. As seconds tick by, Illya is still finding it difficult to string a coherent sentence. 

“So, you’ve talked to Solo?” Gaby tries again after the silence had become too unbearable for her to bear. Illya nods, sheepishly looks down at his feet before looking up at Gaby once again. He then sighs.

“After we talked the other day—I, I could not ignore it. I could not ignore him.”

“No, of course, you couldn’t,” Gaby smiles knowingly. “Have you worked things over with him?”

“Yes, yes. Something like this,” Illya says, tries to avert her gaze. But knowing Gaby, he’s sure she has an inkling of what he had meant judging by her widening grin when he locks eyes with her again. Realising there is no point avoiding the issue any longer, Illya steps a little closer towards Gaby, and when he’s right next to her side, he sighs. Without knowing what he is really doing, one hand goes immediately up her shoulder.

“Something you want to tell me, Illya?” Gaby asks.

“I wouldn’t have done it if you did not say the word lovebirds the other day. Made me see things clearly.”

At that, Gaby just laughs heartily, really laughs like she has not for a long time until the Russian unimpressed growl stops her. She stops, wipes the tears at the corner of her eyes but the wide grin never leaves her lips.

“Oh Illya, you adorable goof. No wonder Solo’s smitten.” 

Illya is full on blushing now, even his ears have turned red. The teasing he’ll have to endure for days to come from her would be endless, he’s absolutely sure he’ll not hear the end of it. But his embarrassment has taken a backseat for the moment because there are numerous other things running in his mind at the moment, and one of them is he’s absolutely grateful for having Gaby Teller in his life. And Illya won’t have it any other way.

“Solo’s not leaving,” he says after a moment and Gaby nods, grabs his hand that is on her shoulder in hers, squeezing it tight. “It’s not the same without Solo, isn’t it? I’m sure you can’t disagree with me on this.”

“ _Nyet._ He’s too important.”

“I know he is,” Gaby says with a warm smile, knows that Napoleon is so much more to Illya than being just too important. “It’ll all be okay, Illya.”

“But do you think Waverly will take me back? He might not be too happy with me, might not think I’m _that_ important as how you’ve put it.”

Unknown to them, Napoleon has been watching his two friends for a good minute before his voice had interrupted their moment. Both Illya and Gaby turn around at once when they’d heard him, sees him leaning against the bedroom doorway with the sheets wrapped loosely around his body. With his morning hair, lazy grin and sleepy bedroom eyes, Illya suddenly realises he has never seen Napoleon like this, so open and unguarded, it makes the tightness in his chest just doubles over, although what he had said puts that worried frown back on Illya’s face.

“I will make sure that he does,” he says in all seriousness. “He’d better.”

“But there’s always the possibility that—”

“Solo, will you stop? Don’t spoil the moment!” Gaby cries, cutting him off. “And sorry, but I’m with Illya on this. Not only does Waverly has to answer to Illya if he ever thinks of not taking you back, he has to answer to me as well.” 

Her sudden indignant cry surprises both men. Illya purses his lips like he wants to smile, and Napoleon just gives Gaby a full on grin. He wants to say something smart but instead is taken aback when Gaby just pushes past Illya to give him a hug. At once Napoleon brings one arm around her shoulders, the other still holding onto the sheets that have somehow slid down to his hips, in danger of falling off if he’s not careful.

“My modesty is at risk here, Gaby,” he jokes and Gaby just giggles. 

A calm silence suddenly befalls them, with neither one of them able to articulate what they want to say to the other. But all the while Illya’s eyes never leave Napoleon, his attention fixed on him like he’s afraid he might disappear if he takes his eyes off him. Sensing that her two favourite boys might need some alone time together, Gaby quickly says her goodbyes.

“Well, unlike you boys, I’ve to report to Waverly in an hour. I’ll let him know of the good news, Solo. Though you still have to see him this afternoon,” says Gaby. 

Untangling herself from Napoleon, she kisses him on the cheeks. “And don’t ever entertain the idea of leaving again.”

Napoleon smiles. “Yes, ma’am.”

After giving Illya a hug as well, and whispering something in his ear that made him blush, Gaby says her goodbyes again and soon, Illya and Napoleon are left alone.

“Say, I have a thought. How did Gaby get in? Did you let her in?”

Illya grins at Napoleon’s question. The Russian is now standing just beside the bedroom doorway, leaning in to close the small gap between them. He reaches out to caress Napoleon’s face, feeling light and happy and all the things he just could not explain with words.

“You taught her how to pick locks, Cowboy. Chop shop girl is a good student.”

“Ah, I see. And is that why you are wearing my robe?” Napoleon asks with one eyebrow raised before something dawned on him. “Hold on, did she see you naked?”

“More or less,” Illya answers with a careless shrug. 

“And here I was worried about my modesty,” Napoleon chuckles, shaking his head.

Without warning, Illya is suddenly pulling him into his arms and Napoleon drapes his own around Illya’s shoulders. The sheet around him that’s been hanging rather precariously finally drops down to the floor.

“That sheet looks good on you, Cowboy. But I prefer this look. You without it.”

Napoleon laughs. “Don’t have to worry about me being modest around you, do I? I mean you are allowed to look now,” Napoleon teases, earning him a soft kiss on the lips. And Napoleon savours it, tangles his tongue languidly with Illya’s, the pace different than the hard bruising ones from last night. But it’s just as beautiful, just as meaningful, just as passionate. 

Just like how they want it to be.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Although the numbers are small, there have been cases where spies quit on their organisations (either they are from the CIA, KGB, MI6). The protocols needed to be followed aren’t really clear (or I have not done my research enough, so, of course, there are inaccuracies in the story, apologies for that).  
> 2) The longest single shot story I have ever written, (I’ve reread this so many times, you've no idea, until I can't look it anymore haha) so please forgive me for any mistakes. I’m sure I’ll only see it once the story is posted.  
> 3) The title is borrowed from The Phantom's 'We Carry On'  
> 4) Thanks to Cone_23 for the plot bunny. :)


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